


Infinitas Infinitio

by Saber_Wing



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Creepy, Graphic Description of Corpses, Horror, Tragedy, Undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 07:51:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1218361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saber_Wing/pseuds/Saber_Wing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how hard he tries to hold on, it escapes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinitas Infinitio

The chill in his bones is an ever-present ache, resonating from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. Steadily, he follows the well-worn path before him. His movements are slow, halting and methodical, and he recalls what monotony is, though he no longer feels the strain of it. He wonders at the fact that he can still feel anything at all though this hulk of rotting flesh. Why he still draws breath through a mouth long absent lips.

Is it through necessity or habit? He cannot say.

His hair is falling off in clumps, leaving bare patches of bone near the scalp, scattered along the back and sides of his skull. What's left of his finger slips on the hilt of his gunblade, and he winces at the sound. Harsh, piercing, metal against bone.

Looking down, he frowns at the appendage, betrayed.

How flesh wears away so suddenly, he also cannot say.

No matter.

There isn't much left of it anyway.

The only things present here are the wind and the stone. Precisely where here is, he stopped guessing ages ago. He knows it is a fortress, a castle with high walls and sharp peaks. Sometimes he even recognizes the corpses scattered every which way as he moves, though they never speak, committed to a death more complete than…well, whatever he is.

It must be restful for them, lying about the way they do. Never moving, sleeping peacefully against the stone. What is that like, he wonders? He's never been able to do it.

He tries sometimes.

It never yields much success, so he walks instead. And though he wanders the halls from time to time, this chamber is where he likes to stay.

He knows it's important. He's just not sure why.

The gunblade is a steady weight at his side, though what's left of his mind wonders how he carries it. He also wonders why he knows it is a gunblade, though he does not know his name.

He thinks he had a name once.

It eludes him. Like most other things do.

Perhaps the weapon matters more in the end anyway.

Spinning on his heel, he hears it crack, though he shouldn't since his ears are naught but gaping holes in his skull, scraps of skin still clinging for dear life upon his cheeks. They are the only patches left on his face, and they should probably just give up, but they're stubborn, and he can appreciate that. He can appreciate not letting go.

He's never been good at it either.

Slowly, he paces back the way he has come, moving in a slow half circle in front of the sacred place. Sacred to  _him,_ and he has to protect,  _protect,_ because it's precious.  _She's_ precious. The place she sleeps in, that is. Just to prove a point, he walks toward it, though it takes him a time or two. He's not as quick as he used to be, but he gets there.

And when he does, he traces one bony fingertip along her skeletal cheek, remembers a time when it was warm to the touch. He strokes the downy patches of black hair he can still find there, clinging to her skull. Her eyes are gone (he can see that with the one he has left), but he knows what they looked like. Dark, vibrant and beautiful.

For just a moment, he remembers what he'd been. What  _they'd_ been. He remembers she is the sun, and that she'll never rise again.

_Rinoa…_

_Just stay close to me._

_Even if you become the world's enemy…_

_I'll be your knight._

No matter how hard he tries to hold on, it escapes him. No matter how hard he fights, it slips away. The colors in her eyes fade back to bone, and the music of her voice dissolves in silence. And once again, he knows that this is where he has to be, but once again, he cannot understand why.

He always has to let go. He hates letting go.

And yet he wishes he could sleep, like the corpses in the hall.

It must be restful for them.

Lying about the way they do.

Slowly, he straightens and makes his way back to the well-worn path.

It takes him a time or two. He's not as quick as he used to be.

But he gets there.

He thinks she had a name once.

It eludes him.

Like most other things do.


End file.
